Sigmund Freud kept a dream journal from the time he was ten years of age. Our dreams matter, the nudge at 2 am to think clearly, bridge across the life span. Students in my General Psychology classes laugh about Freud, but no one admits to journaling their dreams from childhood. But this is not a dream journal. I am writing about the American Dream to own a house, raise a family, belong to a neighborhood. Real dreams are remembered only partially, in pieces, lost in the morning.
Here is what I remember: When I go back far enough, we lived on Bernal Drive in Salinas, CA. My parents were married one year. We move to Redwood City. Mom is pregnant with my brother, I’m less than a year. Dad opens a corner grocery on El Camino. We live above the store until the house on St. Francis Street is built with GI bill financing. Dad was in the Navy in S. Pacific during WWII. Chronology gets in the way.
My grandson is eight. He lives with us in the split level we bought in 1979. I wanted to start my own preschool. to be cont.
poet denise calvetti michaels 